


Essence

by PermianExtinction



Series: Tropoverse Canon [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Aftermath - Chuck Wendig
Genre: But Not Definitely, F/M, In a Nemesis-y Way, Pining, Possibly Canon Non-Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 20:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15057158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PermianExtinction/pseuds/PermianExtinction
Summary: While biding his time on Jakku, Rax finds himself transfixed by a propaganda poster he has commissioned of Sloane.Set between Life Debt and Empire's End.





	Essence

When the lights of the council chamber dim to near darkness, she shines brighter, a piercing and violently purifying light. Set against dull grays and reds, the white of her uniform is so blinding that it brings an ache to the inside of his skull. Gallius Rax closes his eyes, and the blurry afterimage floats against his eyelids, shifting colors as it dissipates. He half smiles.

Ferric Obdur, the sycophantic propagandist, unveiled the poster’s design to Rax in private. Ironic how it had been the Grand Admiral who once oversaw the approval process of such posters, but she would be absent for this final work. Because it is indeed final — there will be no need for any of this after the plan is executed.

Strange to admit it now, but there was a touch of apprehension skirting the edges of Rax’s mind when he handed this assignment to Obdur. The man is talented; his imagery striking, forceful, and effective. Artistically, compositionally, it has merit as well.

But what he knows is how to compose a piece that brings together familiar symbols of the Empire. The subject is not the Empire here; it is Rae.

There was always an indescribable quality about her that Rax saw in no other. Something rare, and therefore precious, that needed to be preserved. And then tuned, honed, ripened, intensified. A unique value of power, like the timbre of a newly invented instrument — he could admire that. Perhaps even covet it.

He knows that she saw the same in him. The galaxy is full of disputes over what should be done, what was right, what was true. But even a righteous soul like Rae Sloane, who staunchly believes in dichotomies, is drawn to power. Nothing is intrinsically true or right to the fickle hearts of the galaxy, but an idea imbued with authority becomes both.

Rax did not expect Obdur to create a masterpiece, but at the same time, that had been the implicit demand. Nothing less would suffice. And then this design was presented to him. At first it seemed to be another entry in Obdur’s personal canon, using the same styles and techniques he had relied on in the past. At first, it had seemed disappointing. Yet it demanded attention; Rax could not tear his eyes away. Still cannot.

He sensed her.  _Indescribably._

Perhaps that quality was finally isolated and realized before his eyes. Extracted like the essential oils of an herb. The calm fortitude of her expression, the level intensity of her gaze. The way her hair falls, the way her chin tilts up, the shape of her shoulders. It is not the same Rae Sloane he had known and worked alongside, but that woman and the woman in the poster could be classified together in an exclusive group, set apart from the rest of existence.

Obdur put something else into the design, something which the untrained eye could never hope to detect. Fear; his own. Fear of her? Intriguing.

A high pitched tone from behind informs Rax that someone is requesting entry — with the press of a button hidden beneath the table, he admits them. Rising halfway from his chair, he sees the white armor and single orange pauldron of a stormtrooper commander.

“The ground forces have been fully deployed on the planet, sir,” the man states crisply, passing him a datapad. “Reconnaissance of the area is complete.”

“Very good,” Rax murmurs, seating himself once more and turning his attention to the screen in his hands. The battle to come must be orchestrated to perfection. There will be a battle; it will begin with the sudden appearance of the New Republic fleet, seeking the advantage of a surprise attack. The Empire’s retaliation will be swift but desperate. And then, the landscape of Jakku will be reshaped.

Before him are maps: topographical, littered with symbols for towns and roving tribes. The native inhabitants have not been cleared out, despite the suggestions of General Borrum. The man could not imagine a strategic use for them, but of course he does not know the purpose of this battle yet. Rax flicks his eyes over the images, overlaying them with the map he has held in his mind for decades. He fits them together — that which is seen on Jakku, and that which is unseen.

For now, everything is in order. “Dismissed,” Rax tells the trooper, waving him away.

Cold, concentrated pressure meets the back of his neck.

“Don’t move…  _sir_.”

Not the trooper’s voice. But a familiar one.

Rax does not move.

“You will remain seated. You will not turn or make any sudden motions. You may speak.” There is a hoarse edge to the voice, and it speaks lowly, not a whisper, but not a barking command. It sounds weary, but it is a dangerous and deceptive weariness. The faintest lilt communicates more threat than a clipped snarl might. Rax feels a wisp of breath skim the same short hairs that the chill of the blaster barrel set on end, and then a hand places the grimacing white helmet to his left on the table. “Understand?”

Slowly, Rax sets the datapad on the table beside the helmet and folds his hands in his lap. He wets his lips to speak — after all, he was given that option. “You are early.”

“You were expecting me?” The blaster adjusts slightly against the nape of his neck, aiming up towards his brain stem.

“Of course.” He shifts his gaze to the periphery of his vision, daring to minutely tilt his chin. The dim edges of a figure behind him, the trooper armor—

“Look. Ahead.” A hand moves in from behind and forcibly adjusts his chin. That, not the press of the blaster or the tone of the voice, sends a wave of crawling uncertainty through him, as he fixes his eyes on the static glowing holoposter.

A two-dimensional Rae Sloane gazes off to the left, arms crossed, proud and distant and professional, as the hand shifts to his shoulder. It is pushing down, pinning him to his seat, and it does not leave. 

“That was your last warning.” And then the voice moves closer to his ear, dropping in volume, each word spoken with flat deliberateness. “You know I am not bluffing.”

That, he knows.

“You deserve… commendation,” he eventually says. “For infiltrating the ship without my knowledge. The stormtrooper’s voice — a recording, perhaps? Most ingenious.”

“Don’t be coy. This was not my success.” The words become thorny, stinging. “This was your failure.”

Rax presses his lips together and swallows. He should not be shaken here. Should not be goaded into anger. He stares at the woman on the wall, but she refuses to return his gaze; she only looks ahead.

“I will have my success soon enough.”

“Oh?”

“You might think I am here to bargain. But I assure you. I will defeat you.”

“But not like this,” Rax says. He inhales slowly, as if he can detect a person’s thoughts by the scent that lingers in the air. “You are very used to eliminating threats, and you have done so with a… shall we say… moral prerogative? And yet, if you killed me here, it would be… dissatisfying.”

“It would be supremely satisfying,” the voice growls, and once again there is uncertainty. Rax searches the Sloane of the picture, searches his memories of her. He always has known, from a logical perspective, that she despised him and considered killing him. She had every reason for this. But he cannot recall a time when she sounded so far removed from… what, exactly? He remembers that once called her an elevated mind. There is nothing left of that.

Once again, he has been staring so long at her profile that the afterimage follows him in the low light when his eyes move away. But this time it feels as if it could permanently brand itself in his retinas. “Then what part of keeping me alive could satisfy you more?”

“Did you order her to kill me?”

Puzzle pieces slot into place. He is surprised by how even her tone is. “I see,” he murmurs.

“… ’I see’ is not an answer,” the woman behind him snaps contemptuously. A flash of intuition tells Rax that her finger has tightened on the trigger.

“The answer is no.”

“You are a liar,” Rae says.

“I am a liar. But that was not a lie.” He waits. There is no evidence he can provide to sway her, and he is sure that the longer he speaks, the more suspicious she will become.

Eventually, she shifts — he can hear the armor plates clacking together faintly. Her hand remains on his shoulder, and he feels heat from it, as if the blood within her is literally at a boil. But her voice? Once more, it is painstakingly level. “I would have preferred otherwise. I cannot fault her for following orders.”

“A—” He doesn’t make it beyond the first syllable of a name before the burning fingers holding him in place clench tighter. “She had faith in the cause.”

Rax expects an eruption of rage. The blaster digs deeper into the back of his neck. Yet there is only the pregnant silence. And then she says, and he can hear aching in her words, “A fool, then. And I could not afford to waste my time with foolishness.”

He doesn’t have to be told what happened. Adea Rite is dead. Perhaps the girl was a fool, as Sloane suggests. She wanted to attain greatness, and for those that fail, there is ignominy. But the same awaits those who attempt nothing. He knows, too, that Sloane was the one who killed her. For all the loathing Sloane must be feeling for him, there must be some portion allotted for herself.

“It was my plan,” he declares, as the corner of his upper lip lifts into a sneer. “Do not doubt that I convinced her of everything. She was indeed foolish—”

“ _No_ ,” she snarls, horror tinting the rasp of her breath. The blaster slams into the back of his head, knocking him forward, and then she has a fistful of his hair in one hand and is grinding his cheek into the surface of the table. “You will not make this  _easy_  for me. You will never make such a mangled, misguided attempt at pity again.”

Rax’s breath stutters as he tries to follow her logic. Pity? He does not pity her. Just as she said, there was no time to waste on foolishness, and there was nothing more foolish than pity. His hands hover beside his head, signaling surrender.

And he waits. The blaster has shifted to his temple, and he can feel the tip shaking.  

When it steadies, when the force pushing his face into the marbled durasteel has lessened, he carefully asks, “Are there any other questions you wanted answers for?”

She releases him entirely, and he peels his skin from the smooth tabletop. Cupping the side of his face, Rax rubs his thumb over the cheekbone. It might be starting to bruise. His hand shifts to cover his mouth, and he sits back in his chair, almost casual with how he lets his spine slouch. He braces his chin up with a fist, elbow resting on the arm of the chair. “Well?” he asks.

“No. I have what I came for.”

Rax sits up straight. That isn’t right; she wouldn’t go to such lengths to ask a single question. “Surely you have more to say.” His eyebrows knit together, the corners of his mouth turning down stormily. But he takes a second to recover, ironing away the stabs of displeasure intruding into his thoughts. “All those months, you held your tongue, burying your contempt, your rage. This could be your only chance to speak your… true feelings.” The challenge rolls off his tongue smoothly, as if an energy bolt was not warming itself up in the core of her blaster for a liaison with his brain matter.

“Ask that woman in the picture. I’m sure she will tell you whatever you want to hear, and only so much.”

Rax lifts his eyes to the holoposter once more. His teeth clamp together; as before, the image is unyielding. He thought it had contained a touch of that distilled essence, but now, with the voice behind him, with hands that took petty vengeance on his body for previous trespasses, he no longer knows what it is that makes her so special.

She is here, she is not here. There are two of her. Neither of them are Rae.

The threat of a burst-open skull seems trivial, all of a sudden. He curls his fists tight, fingernails digging through the fabric of his gloves into his palms. “… Let me see you.”

“No.” She almost sounds darkly amused. “You have  _her_. You can keep her.”

He can hear her stepping back. “Leaving so soon?” She did not come here simply for conversation. If he’s wrong about that that, he knows nothing in all the galaxy.

“Don’t worry,” he hears her say, and her voice has that rough, grim edge that he’d heard at the very beginning. Scornful despair. “This isn’t over.”

But why not? Why wasn’t it over the moment she had a clear line of sight and a weapon? She’s discovered things down on the surface, surely. They would have brought her to questions only he could answer, and yet she steps away.

Rax makes a decision. He cannot meet her boldness with excessive caution. “Why prolong this, then?” he says sharply, and rises from his chair.

The blaster fires as he turns, the beam piercing the air next to his ear. The emitter on the holoposter bursts in a violent spray of sparks, and the room descends into darkness as the proud, still, silent Sloane from the poster vanishes from sight.

Rax isn’t sure what he intends to do in this darkness. Physically, Sloane could best him, whether armed or not. But he lunges into the space she had occupied, grasping where he knows she must now be, where he can feel her presence.

The space is empty; he stumbles, plants his feet. His eyes begin adjusting quickly, but he should not need his sight to sense her. He has miscalculated somehow, but she must still be in the room. The door hasn’t opened. She is here, and yet—

A spot on the back of his neck throbs, and he claps a hand to it. It is pain, and yet it is peculiarly numb, like an electric shock.

“ _Rae_ ,” he hisses. “What have you…?”

That constant pressure from the blaster barrel. He cannot say for sure but it is a solid theory — if she had somehow slipped an injector needle in beside the barrel, the flesh might have been numb enough not to notice.

With a cautious step backwards, Rax places his free hand on the back of the chair, bracing himself. “I see,” he manages, drawing himself up and stiffening his shoulders. “Was there a reward for keeping me alive? Have you thrown in your lot with the New Republic? Or perhaps you have… some other purpose for me?” He’s still scouring the room for any hint of a figure, but there’s nothing, nobody.

The pulse of dizziness washes over him a second time, and he has to duck his head down for fear of losing consciousness. “Wait—” he croaks.

Rax opens his eyes. He is seated alone at the head of the table in the conference chambers of the Shadow Council, the lights only half-dimmed. Before him is the implacable, serene, indescribably perfect image of Grand Admiral Sloane. The flat hologram is softly glowing. The emitter is undamaged. The wall is pristine, and the table surface clear.

Stripping away his black leather gloves, the man opens his palms, eyeing the dark symbol adorning one, and then tracing his gaze with perverse fascination up his pale fingers, watching them minutely shake.


End file.
